Page 92 of Rizzed Up By My Alien Neighbor
I straighten my posture, trying to remember that this isn’t war. This is something more human, more fragile. I push thedoor open and it groans, insults spilled and laughter recoiling somewhere beyond the neon sign haze. I slide into the booth across from him.
He glares—not surprised I’m there. Just irritated. Predictable emotions under predictable skin.
I lean forward, tone soft but firm. “You don’t get to be a father again just because you filed papers. But you can stop being a failure.”
Buford snorts, eyes narrowing into cigarette ash dimples. “Yeah? And what do you know about being a father, space accountant?”
I swallow. I know what it means to be afraid of failing someone you love—even if that someone is of another species. “I know what it means to protect what you love. I lost worlds, Mr Mussels. But I didn’t lose them again. I’m not letting that happen here.”
The bartender clanks a glass behind us, but Buford glances away, trying to seem unaffected. I let the silence sit heavy between us a moment.
He grumbles, voice low: “What, you gonna teach me how to hug? Or how to buy my kid shoes instead of beer?”
A flicker of humor. Progress.
I say quietly, “I don’t think you’re beyond help. It won’t be easy, but you can be here—really here—for your daughter. I’ll help you. For her. But if you ever hurt her again… I won’t be forgiving next time.”
My voice is calm, but the underlying threat is clear: sober or not, I'm watching.
He sips his drink, the liquid glinting amber in the neon glow. His voice rattles loose: “You think I want to screw this up? I tried carrying her once—back when she was three—and I swear I just… I wasn’t enough.”
His words jab a dagger through my chest. Because I know what that feels like: the guilt of failing someone you love because you're broken inside.
I reach out and place a scaled hand—through my image inducer—on his. Solid warmth. “Being a father isn’t about grand gestures. It’s about showing up every day. Apologizing. Learning. Being consistent when it's hardest.”
He grips back, unsure at first—but holds my gaze. “And you—you think I can do that?”
I lean in, voice a little softer than I’ve ever allowed myself. “I know you can. I believe it. Because I believe in second chances. I was given one by people who didn’t owe me anything. I earn mine every day. You have one now.”
He breathes out, rough, and I watch the anger drain from his eyes. Maybe shame, maybe relief, maybe both.
He pushes back from the table and stands. The neon flickers in his weary face. He nods once. “Alright. For her, I’ll try.”
I stand too, meeting him. No triumph needed here—just resolution. I feel that fragile cord of possibility stretch taut between us.
He turns toward the door. At the threshold, he glances back. “Thanks… for making me less small.”
I nod. “She’s worth big things.”
He disappears out the door, but the night holds something softer now.
I stay a moment longer, feeling the weight lift. No victory cries. No cheering crowds. Just a man finding the courage to be better. That—maybe—that’s the strongest fight I’ve ever been in.
I leave the bar smelling of cigarette smoke and possibility, stepping out into warm darkness. The world hasn’t changed in a day. But maybe, one small seed has taken hold.
And that's enough for now.
I wake in the middle of the night to the soft glow of streetlamps slicing through the curtains and the sound of muffled footsteps and hushed laughter drifting from the kitchen. Nessa must have gone down with Sammy—classic mother-nighttime intervention.
By the time I pad downstairs, light footsteps guide me to the kitchen chaos: plates strewn across the counters, a papier-mâché planetary system perched atop an upside-down mixing bowl, and a makeshift rocketrigger stream-lining pop-soda bottles. Smoke curls into the flap of the open window, mingling with the tang of scorched glue and something sweet—perhaps the remnants of the glitter globe that exploded in the oven.
Sammy stands on a chair, hoisting her latest scientific “discovery”: a papier-mâché Jupiter that’s mostly pink thanks to a rogue tube of tempera paint. She grins, gummy with excitement. “Mama! He helped!”
“I did,” I confirm, reaching out to steady the bowl as the glue-covered planets wobble precariously. I steal a glance at Nessa, who stands in the doorway with that half-annoyed, wholly amused look she reserves for nights like this. She’s wearing an apron dusted with glue drips and glitter—partly because of me, partly by proximity. Her cheeks are flushed from the kitchen heat and midnight adrenaline, but her eyes shine bright as Saturn's rings.
“Dinner was supposed to be lasagna,” she says, voice soft but carrying across the mess. “Now it’s whatever intergalactic abomination we just created.”
She plucks a long strip of tape off a saucepan handle. “At least it wasn’t acid this time.”
